Ashley McConnel - Highlander Scimitar

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HIGHLANDER: SCIMITAR
by
Ashley McConnell
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and
destroyed' to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the
publisher has received any payment for this 'stripped book."
Copyright 0 1996 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved
"Highlander" is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. C 1994 by
Gaumont Television and Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.
Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.
Aspect is a registered trademark of WarneT Becks, InC.
Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Time
Warner Company Printed in the United States of America First Printing:
February, 19%
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 AUTHOR'S NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The first part of Scimitar is based, of course, on the Algiers flashback
in Part 1 of the third season Finale of HIGHLANDER. Particular thanks
are due to David Tynan, whose script it is; to Gillian Horvath and Donna
Lettow, for providing the flashback details; and to Shirley Emin, who
mentioned the Barbary corsairs at the right moment.
The second part of the book is very loosely based on the Arab Revolt,
and is set in the last month of 1916 and the early part of 1917. Several
of the people named, including T. E. Lawrence (who later came to be
known as Lawrence of Arabia), Colonel Clayton, and the Emir Faisal ibn
Hussein, are real. Faisal's army was indeed progressing up the coast of
the Red Sea during this time. Petra is a real place, and my thanks go
to Richard Halliburton for recording the "rose-red city, half as old as
time," in his Book of Marvels.
Everything else, particularly the tribes of Rushallah and the Irzed and
the legendary treasure house, is a product of my own imagination, with
the help of Nina Kiriki Hoffman's magic sprinkles.
Additional thanks should go to Sean Antonio Romero, who provided the
source book for more research material on the martial arts than I could
possibly use here, and to Betsy Mitchell, who took a great deal on faith
and handled a sensitive situation with tact and humor.
Any historical or linguistic errors are, of course, entirely my own
responsibility.
Prologue: The Watcher
A Watcher was supposed to Watch: observe, record, report. That meant
putting forth some effort from time to time, Joe Dawson acknowledged.
He'd gotten lazy, though, since the subject of the Watching knew about
it. Sometimes he even talked to Joe about his life. It had made Joe's
job much simpler.
But as usual, when a job got too simple, details got easier to overlook.
He was reminded he'd been neglecting his duties when the package arrived
at the bar, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd had a conversation
with its intended recipient.
Someone had left it sitting there, one afternoon in early June, before
the evening crowd began wandering in. He couldn't figure out how the
thing got there; one minute the bar was empty, the next the box was
lying on the corner of the stage, next to a guitar case. The package
wasn't small, either: a good four feet long, a foot wide, some six
inches deep, wrapped up in brown paper and tied with twine, a
cream-colored business card tucked under the knot. A name was written
on the card in flowing brown ink. Joe hefted the parcel: not too heavy.
Nothing ticked ominously.
The bartender was new, still learning where the good stuff was kept, and
he swore there hadn't been anyone there. Joe merely cocked an ironic
eye at him, snorted, and decided it was time to go visiting.
Watching.
Keeping track.
Leaning on his cane in the doorway of the dojo, he watched Duncan
MacLeod move through the elegant, deadly forms of a kata, sweat
glistening on his upper body. Light gleamed on the blade of the sword
shrieking through the air, left shimmering afterimages that hurt the
eyes. MacLeod's face was very still, his attention focused inward. His
movement was a cross between dance and death.
He looked like a man who had spent most of a lifetime in such exercise.
He was tall, appeared to be in his midthirties; sleek-muscled, with long
dark hair tied back in a ponytail that whipped the air as he spun and
leaped, shadowfighting. The elegant grace of it gave the Watcher an
unaccustomed pang of envy, a feeling of weariness in his bones, a sense
that he was-getting old.
That was ironic, too. Joe brushed at his graying beard and smiled to
himself. Anyone looking at the two of them together might be forgiven
for thinking him perhaps twenty years older than the man who fought with
shadows.
The rest of the dojo was empty at this hour, the exercise mats rolled up
neatly out of the way. The weapons were racked or mounted, as if they
were no more than conversation pieces, works of art interrupting the
bare starkness of the walls.
The exercise was complete, finished with a snapped nod, a silent salute
to the invisible opponent. Joe stifled an urge to applaud. He did
shift his weight, and MacLeod pivoted smoothly, unstartled.
"Joe. Hello." A faint, pleasant accent, too light to identify anymore,
flavored his voice. A glint of pleased recognition lit his dark eyes.
"You're slipping, MacLeod. You don't want somebody sneaking up on you
one day."
The words were wry, and the man to whom +,hey were addressed met them
with an equally wry smile in response. It wouldn't happermot now, not
ever. Joe was reasonably sure MacLeod had known someone was standing in
the doorway in the same heartbeat he had arrived; focus on the kata
notwithstanding, MacLeod was always aware of his environment.
Now, setting the sword aside, he reached for a towel and began to dry
the sweat from his chest and arms. "Something up7" he asked, perhaps a
trifle too casually.
"No, no. Just hadn't seen you for a few days, thought I'd look in and
see how you were doing." Joe moved away from the doorway, limping over
to look at the sword. It was a practice weapon, weighted to duplicate
another weapon, kept out of sight but always to hand. He shifted the
package under one arm, mentally measuring the sword against it.
MacLeod chuckled. "I'm doing fine, Joe. No ancient enemies showing up,
no new ones either. It's quiet. I like it that way." He tossed the
towel over his shoulder, led the other man into the back office of the
dojo.
This, too, showed much of the spare good taste of its owner. Weapons
hung on these walls as well, but this was a room for doing business,
with a wooden desk-not expensive, but not cheap either-office chairs,
and metal file cabinets. It was a place where work was done, and
clutter was not permitted.
A bottle of water waited on the desk; MacLeod took it up and drank
deeply, ostentatiously not looking at the package Dawson carried under
his arm. Dawson waited; MacLeod was in excellent shape and would
recover quickly from the exercise, and then there were the private
rituals of friendship to be observed.
Thirst satisfied, MacLeod pulled on a white T-shirt that had been draped
neatly over the back of his chair, and opened a drawer in the desk. He
produced a bottle of singlemalt whisky and two glasses. Pouring a
fingerful into each glass, he handed one to Joe and raised the other.
"To peace and quiet."
Joe acknowledged the toast and took a sip of the liquid, holding it in
his mouth a moment before swallowing. MacLeod raised his eyebrows,
waiting.
. Dawson took his time, considering. Finally he said, "This is, ah,
let's see. Dark Roses? That little place up near Inverness."
MacLeod grinned. "Right. I thought I'd had you there."
The Watcher grinned back. "It's all right." He took another sip.
"Not bad," MacLeod agreed, looking critically at the contents of the
glass. "I've had worse." Setting the glass aside, he reached for a
long-sleeved shirt and shrugged it on, dropping the towel on the desk as
he did so, plopping himself into the desk chair and swiveling around to
face his visitor. "So. What's the real reason?"
Joe lowered himself stiffly into the visitor's chair, setting the
package on the desk. "Just say hello, that's all. Oh, and there's
this." He indicated the box.
The other man examined it curiously. "What's this?"
"Somebody left it for you at the bar. We didn't see who left it; the
new day guy isn't too bright."
MacLeod turned over the card with his name on it, looking in vain for a
message on the back. It was blank.
He shrugged, tossing the card back on the desk, and poured himself just
enough more whisky to cover the bottom of the glass.
"Aren't you going to open it?"
MacLeod finished his drink. "Nah. It'll keep." He burst out laughing
at the expression of disappointment that crossed the other man's face.
"All right, alright. Is it your birthday or something?" Pulling the
package back, he yanked the twine apart with casual strength and ripped
the paper away.
Torn away, the paper revealed a large plain case, rectangular, with
rounded corners, of some old, highly polished dark wood that shone
almost with a life of its own; the brass hinges were tinged faintly
green with age. There was no lock. The lid was shallow, a quarter the
depth of the whole thing. It appeared to be more formal than a mere
box: rather, it appeared to be a case specifically designed for
something, something long and flat and narrow. Like one of the weapons
on the wall.
"What is it?"
MacLeod's hand hovered at the corner, as if reluctant to lift the lid.
He had, Joe realized suddenly, the same introspective look on his face
that it had worn earlier, when he was moving through the meditative
forms of the exercise. He sat back to watch, fascinated, wondering what
MacLeod was thinking, what he was remembering. It was obvious that he
recognized the container.
Joe wanted, very badly, to ask again what the thing was, what it
contained, what memories it triggered. He suspected that he knew, but
suspicion wasn't enough; he was supposed to know. It was his business,
after all. He was a Watcher; Duncan MacLeod was his assigned subject.
But there was more to their relationship than that. Duncan MacLeod was
his friend, as well. So he kept silent, refusing to intrude, knowing
that his curiosity would be satisfied eventually.
MacLeod's fingers drifted over the glossy wood, as if caressing it, and
then, as if he had reached a sudden decision, he set the wooden case
back on the desk and flipped back the lid to display the contents.
"My God!" The Watcher was unable to restrain his surprise. He rose to
his feet, leaning over to get a closer look.
The box held a scimitar, a long curved blade set in a worn black leather
scabbard. At first glance it didn't appear particularly prepossessing;
it was inlaid with no rubies or emeralds, no enamel on the guard. The
sword had a hilt of plain rough silver, bent back at a right angle, with
a ring set where the pommel should be. The scabbard, too, was decorated
for part of its length with silver, worked in a fine embroidered wire.
Then MacLeod took the hilt in his hand and slid it free of the cracked
and dusty leather, lifted the sword up to the light.
The damascened blue-gray metal shone like triumph, catching the light in
ripples, as if the steel was viewed through water, or oil. Along the
back, near the hilt, the blade had been chiseled out in arabesques and
inlaid with gold; along its length, more gold inlay set off an
inscription in flowing Arabic characters.
Joe drew a reverent breath. "That's beautiful."
"Yes," MacLeod agreed absently. He rose. stepped away from the desk,
and slashed at the air, his wrist twisting. He put his back into it;
the blade shrieked as if it had a life of its own, and stopped a
fraction of an inch from the chair. He raised it again, inspecting the
edge, and ran his thumb along it.
Joe winced as blood welled up and ran down the metal. MacLeod cursed,
sucking at the cut and setting the sword down, carefully, to reach for a
soft cloth.
The cloth wasn't for the cut. The cut, in fact, was almost gone by the
time the man removed his thumb from his mouth, and he dried saliva and
leftover blood on the leg of his jeans and took up the sword again to
clean away the red stain on the blade.
Joe had seen this before, a hundred times, and it still sent a chill
through him. The cut had been deep, to the bone; enough blood had
flowed to run clear to the base of the man Is thumb; now there was no
sign of it. MacLeod didn't appear even to notice. He was polishing the
blade with slow, even, practiced strokes. The muscles in the corner of
his mouth tightened in what might have been a reminiscent smile.
He obviously knew the weapon. The polishing was a welcoming of an old
acquaintance, a smoothing away of years of separation. From the
expression on his face, the scimitar represented both good memories and
painful ones.
"How old is it?" Joe asked, very quietly. He could see, now, that the
inlaid inscription was so worn down in places as to be illegible; the
enameling had chipped out in two places. There was a dent in the hilt.
The silver was badly tarnished, nearly black in places.
"I don't know," MacLeod said thoughtfully, still absorbed in the
polishing. "At lest three hundred and fifty years. Someone's making me
a very nice gift."
"You've been looking for it, then?"
"No, not really. I'm glad to have it, though." He looked up, past his
visitor, as if searching for the right spot on the wall.
"Whose was it?"
"It belonged to one of my very first teachers," MacLeod said. "He was a
good man."
That was one of the good memories, Joe could tell. As well as one of
the painful ones.
And how, he wondered, could someone like MacLeod untangle them, after so
many years? More than four hundredhow many swords had he seen in four
hundred years?
Joe blinked. For a moment the man sitting across the table from him was
something other, something more than just Duncan MacLeod, sometime owner
of a dojo and an antique store, world traveler, occasional raconteur,
good man, loyal friend, connoisseur of single-malt whiskies.
He was an Immortal. He had been born in the Highlands more than four
hundred years ago, and he could not die unless someone took his head,
and with it his power.
Joe Dawson knew all this intellectually-it was why he Watched, after
allut sometimes, as now, it hit him -in the gut that he would never
truly understand what it was like to carry centuries worth of memories,
to take another Immortal's head and with it the Quickening, to watch as
the world changed, as time passed and mortals died. Dawson might feel
old, watching MacLeod; but generations of men like Joe Dawson had passed
away while this scimitar and this man remained. It was no wonder the
glistening steel evoked such a bond in him.
"It's not a message, then?"
MacLeod shook his head. "If it is, I don't know what it might be." He
smiled suddenly. "It doesn't matter, though. Someone who knows me, and
knows-this." He touched the blade again, lightly.
Now Joe was even more curious. But it wasn't polite to grill his host,
and when MacLeod put the sword aside the conversation turned to ordinary
things, cu.-rent events, politics, sports, women, music, all the things
ordinary men, friends, might have talked about in a long June evening.
They might have been anywhere at all, much less in a martial-arts
studio.
it was late when the Watcher finally returned home. He put on an old
blues album and went to his journal, intending to update his records
with a short paragraph. Watching an Immortal often meant periods of
great boredom punctuated by short periods of dreadful activity. Once
the task was finished, he replaced the leather-bound book on the shelf
beside the rest. All the records were stored on disk as well; but Joe
found he preferred the sensory feel of the volumes themselves.
They were all alike, those books: they'd been rebound over the
centuries, sometimes copied and translated, the better to preserve their
contents. Most, though, were originals, passed down generations to rest
for the time being with him. The covers were marked with the same symbol
he had tattooed on his wrist, the trefoil-in-circles.
These two dozen volumes were the records of Watcher and Watched, over
centuries-not just the life of Duncan MacLeod, but of others Joe Dawson
had Watched play and lose the Game, and their heads. He'd been quite
fond of some of them, in a remote sort of way. He'd never been friends
with one before.
The gift of the sword still nagged at him. To an Immortal, it had to
carry special meaning; he wondered what sort of memories it might
represent.
His eyes narrowed as he looked at the records again.
An Arab sword.
Three hundred and fifty years.
Where was Duncan MacLeod three hundred and fifty years ago? He'd barely
been Immortal a single lifetime, back then. He'd been-just where had he
been, that he could have crossed paths with an Arab sword, belonging to
one of his first teachers?
Thoughtfully, he reached for one of the first books, one worn and
battered, the leather dry and dusty. He opened it carefully, thinking
he should take better care of the record of a life, and began to read,
puzzling out the awkward, faded writing, the words in old and unfamiliar
languages.
Chapter One
Somewhere in the Mediterranean, 1653 ...
In the year of Our Lord 1653, in the Doge's blessed city of Venice. The
Scots Immortal has parted company from this city in peace, for which God
be thanked. MacLeod takes ship from Venice for Spain.
It is an ill time to travel; the Turks are insolent. I shall send
messages by pigeon to my fellows along the way. In the meantime,
prepare to accompany MacLeod. Never let it be said that I have failed
my calling and betrayed my oath. -Ignatius Bell'domo For the first time
since he had died thirty years before, Duncan MacLeod wished,
profoundly, that he had stayed dead. Doubled over the side of a Venetian
sailing ship, he tried once again to bring forth something, anything,
out of his queasy stomach, but there was nothing left except nausea.
Meanwhile the life and business of the Sancta Innocents continued
unconcernedly about him. The sailors had long since lost interest in
making jokes about the tall, welldressed man with the dreadful accent
and no sea legs. The other passengers, fortunately, still eyed him with
some sympathy.
"You know, people do get used to it," said one, slapping him on the back
in friendly fashion.
MacLeod looked around at him blearily. He was too weak, at the moment,
to do murder, though the idea was very tempting. The ship rose and fell
with the long swell of the Mediterranean waves, and MacLeod's vision
swam with the fishes.
"You lie," he gasped out, his Italian thick with the burr of Scotland.
"No one could get used to this. Holy God, does it never stop moving?"
The other man laughed. "Oh, I used to be as bad as you. Now I rather
like it. You will live through it, I promise."
Alfonso d'Valenzuela never knew how close he came to death in that
moment; if he had been an Immortal, MacLeod would have taken the man's
head with his teeth. Except, of course, that the thought of swallowing
blood made hiwl retch again.
"Ah, my poor brave Duncan," came a woman's voice from behind him. "Has
the sea defeated you?"
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the railing. "Not yet."
It was supposed to be a growl. It came out sounding as miserable as he
felt. Eventually he managed to pull himself more or less upright to
squint wearily over the gently rolling horizon. He would not, not heave
again, he swore it. His jaw was clenched against the possibility. He
was no pulling boy, he was a man, and to be sick this way, particularly
under the eyes of a woman, was shameful. Turning to glance behind him,
he caught sight of her and smiled wanly, grateful for the distraction of
the sight of her. Yes, it was especially humiliating to be sick before
such a woman as Terezia, just sixteen, high-spirited, with a complexion
like milk, her lips like cherries ... he bolted for the rail again.
"Oh, dear." A light hand lifted his chin, and a damp cloth wiped at his
face. He looked down blearily to see Terezia herself industriously
scrubbing at his cheek and chin, her elegant eyebrows knit with
concentration. She showed not the slightest sign of distress at the
mess he'd made of himself.
It was one of the most endearing things about her, he'd decided months
ago. Even in the Doge's court Terezia d'Alessandro, under the watchful
eye of her father, her brother Gioninno, and her guardsman d'Valenzuela,
mixed freely with the merchants and ambassadors and nobility from aB the
courts of Europe and the East. She showed no more dismay at sharing a
table with a Muslim lord from the Sublime Porte in Constantinople than
she did in discussing love poetry with an English merchant-less, in
fact, but then the Englishman was a boot.
In the shadowed, perfumed halls of the Doge's palace Terezia had laughed
and flirted and captured his heart with a teasing kiss, and he had
fallen a little in love with her. She had made it clear that a kiss was
all he would have of her, a kiss and a dance and a smile.
And now, a cloth to wash away his sickness and make him feel better.
Duncan finally regained enough equilibrium to catch at her wrist.
"That's enough, lass. I thank you."
She smiled at him. "I'm sorry you don't travel well, Duncan. I think
traveling the sea is so wonderful." The Mediterranean Sea was the blue
of sapphires, with a lining of white on each wave. Sunlight glittered
on the water. Gulls tilted back and forth on the warm salt breeze,
calling. It was quite beautiful, of course, much as a landscape filled
with jewels, much as the woman at his side was beautiful, but it would
keep moving so....
"Ah, well." He reached behind him to take a surreptitious deathgrip on
the rail. "Best you go back to your father, now. We wouldn't want him
to get the wrong idea. As for the sea- Perhaps your new husband will
take you with him sometimes."
"My ... new husband. Yes." She smiled again, and winked, and swayed
away to stand beside her father, who was glowering at the exchange.
Something about her expression bothered the Highlander. He hoped she
hadn't decided she was going to run away with her bodyguard. She was a
good girl, really, perhaps too out,,oing; she had spent a lot of time
talking to the Turkish ambassadors. But she was never scandalous.
D'Valenzuela had always been nearby, or her father, or Duncan, keeping
an eye on her. Still, it was no secret she didn't want this marriage,
to a tradin, partner of her father's in Spain.
The Sancta Innocents was a decent-sized, if old, galley flying the flag
of Venice. The twin masts were supplemented by a bank of oars for
maneuvering when the wind failed. She carried six passengers, a cargo
of silk and tea from Cathay, and a substantial dowry in gold and jewels.
The entire cargo belonged to the Signore d'Alessandro.
Besides the family d'Alessandro was another, secretive little man
calling himself Calizione, who kept himself apart; Duncan had been too
seasick to find out any more about him. And then there was Duncan
MacLeod himself, who was there because the Sancta Innocents was lifting
anchor when the impulse struck him to go. He had met the d'Alessandros
at one of the huge banquets the Do,e gave, where persons of all nations
and importance met, conversed, dealt secretly with one another. He had
gotten to know them and d'Valenzuela in several such encounters. He had
been delighted to accept the invitation to accompany them. adding his
sword to Alfonso's for the protection of them all.
At least, he had been delighted until the ship had cleared the harbor.
Even the English Channel had not made him as sick as the deceptively
gentle Mediterranean. From the first day out, he had been ill to some
degree. Terezia had clucked over him like a worried bantam hen, much to
the amusement of everyone else.
They had moved around the boot of Italy and were making the long run to
Spain, hoping to avoid arousing the unwelcome attention of the Turkish
corsairs. With the Knights no longer in Malta, every fishing boat was
regarded with suspicion, and the captain was feeling particularly
uneasy. His crew was mostly Spanish, and he was headed to a Spanish
port; it was as good as a bonfire to attract the attention of pirates.
There had to be an excellent reason, such as the cementing of a trade
alliance or the profit of a good cargo, to risk venturing out.
MacLeod knew all this; it had been common talk at court. Still, his
innate restlessness was enough to drive him on. Every day, now, he
realized again what it meant to be thirty-one years past his own death.
Back home, the men he had played with as a boy were dying of old age,
while he remained young and strong, never changing. Someday, he
thought, he'd be used to it. As yet, he was not.
So he did things impulsively. He took ship for Spain for no other
reason than that he was tired of Venice and the tide was going.
Somewhere there would be a battle, somewhere someone would hire his
sword and he could experience again what it was like to die without
dying, risk without risking anything really important. He was Immortal.
His friend d'Valenzuela was not. He was merely a decent drinking
companion (if one liked sweet wine), with a decent sense of humor about
him as long as he wasn't talking about mal de mer. He was there to
stand escort and keep Gioninno out of trouble.
The boy was forever clambering about the rigging, from which uneasy
perch he insisted upon looking for Turkish ships. Three times in two
days he had caused a small panic with false sightings, until the
captain, in an apoplectic fit, ordered him down. The only thing keeping
him from being thrown to the fishes, MacLeod thought, was his father's
share in the cargo. Even more annoying than Gioninno's puppylike
enthusiasm for pirates was his utter lack of reaction to the shifting,
heaving, eternally restless sea.
.And then there was Terezia. Sweet Terezia, standing at the railing and
looking over the sea as if she were without a care in the world. Duncan
slumped back against a convenient bulkhead and contemplated her: as free
of seasickness as her brother, a vision of loveliness he could
appreciate even as his gut churned: her lovely dark eyes, her slender
waist, her little hands, so soft against his forehead. She had been
ki-rid to him in his misery, even though he could tell that be-neath her
carefree smile she was harboring tension of her own.
It was the strain of being so far from home, of looking forward to the
marriage, he thought charitably, and he could gain merit himself by
giving her something else to think about. If only he didn't have to
disgrace himself in the doing!
"MacLAeod!" It was Gioninno. "You promised to tell me again about the
barbarians of your homeland!"
MacLeod glared at him, resenting the distraction.
livious, Gioninno grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from the
bulkhead, back toward the rail. The deck rose and fell under Duncan's
feet, apd he c-rijmbled, clinging to a handy line. Gioninno paid no
heed. "Tell me again. I thought the Stuart was a Scot?"
"Aye. Or so he claims." The Immortal attempted to rise from the deck
and moaned to himself as his stomach tried to turn inside out.
"So you Scots conquered the barbaric English after all. It is most
romantic." Gioninno nodded with great satisfaction. "A pity, though,
that it could not have been in glorious battle. It is much better o win
in battle, is it not?"
"Oh, aye." MacLeod's head was throbbing, too. Perhaps it was the
plague. Unfortunately, he couldn't die permanently of the plague,
either, or so he had been taught. He wondered if he could rig up a
blade to fall upon him and end this misery "The roar of battle! The
clash of arms! The music of the trumpets!" Gioninno waxed ecstatic,
carried away by his own visions.
MacLeod, whose memories of battle ran more to the smell of blood and
ordure and the screams of dying men, only shook his head. Glory, yes,
there was always glory to be won by a strong sword arm, and wealth; he
could sympathize with the boy's excitement. At the moment, however, he
was losing his battle with the sea once more, and he felt anything but
glorious. Launching himself for the deck rail, he draped himself over
it just in time.
Gioninno followed, gamboling at MacLeod's heels like a half-grown puppy.
"Leave him be, boy," Alfonso advised from his place near the mast. "Have
some mercy, after all."
"Oh, Signor MacLeod is only suffering from a most minor upset," Gioninno
responded, waving off the suggestion. "Look, the fishing ships are
moving off- Look! It's a xebec! A Turkish ship!"
"Holy Mother of God, boy-" Alfonso said wearily. "I thought you tired
of that yesterday."
But Gioninno was climbing onto the railing in his excitement, and
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HIGHLANDER:SCIMITARbyAshleyMcConnellIfyoupurchasethisbookwithoutacoveryoushouldbeawarethatthisbookmayhavebeenstolenpropertyandreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed'tothepublisher.Insuchcaseneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis'strippedbook."Copyright01996byWarnerBooks,Inc.Allrightsrese...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：123 页 大小：283.27KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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